Join the Cult, save a life

Take a look to the left of this post. You should see a link called "The Hossman Cult." Go ahead and click on it if you want to join me in greatness. Take the Blue Pill, Neo, take the blue pill.

Basically, as I understand it, it is a way for you become a follower of this blog and it is part of my worldwide plan to become a Tax Exempt entitiy. If Rush Limbaugh can have a bunch of nut job crazies following his every bowel movement, why can't I? As I write this, there is only one follower and that follower is me. That is part of the philosphy of this cult, I follow my own lead.

It's just one of the new features that I have added to the new look of the blog. If you look below the Cult link you will also see a way to suscribe to the blog. Sign up for that and you will be notified when a new blog is posted instead of checking this site out 1000 times a day and then having crushing anxiety attacks when nothing is posted. That's another part of the Cult philosphy--help out the little guy but don't drink the juice. We don't drink tainted juice here, our juice is 100% poison free. Maybe not baby vomit free but that won't kill you, just give you the runs a little bit.

I wish I could take most of the credit for the new look of the blog but sadly, I can't. I can't because I have the fashion sense of a blind monkey with the color cordination of roadkill. I often tell people I am color blind when they asked me why I dressed the way I did. I'm not. I can very much tell the difference between green and red. What you see is just very poor choices in clothing that I tend to make when not under the supervision of my wife.

I once bought a pair of plastic shoes. And not cool crocs. No, this was back in 1993 and they were plastic and purple. I thought they were cool and went great with my Brad Pitt hair. Sadly, they were not and now I've lost my hair as a direct result of my poor fashion sense. So I leave all the "look" of things to Hossmom when ever possible. So she sat down and took my constructive critiscm (That sucks!) and redid the look of my blog for me. Most of it was finished when she told me to get away or she would resort to violence. That didn't work so then she threatened to reveal my most inner secrets. I said hey, I blog, I have no more secrets. I once took a crap on a neighbors fence because I couldn't hold it until I got home. It wasn't a prank, I just couldn't make it. I was 24. What secrets do I have left?

So finally she started to pull out chest hairs, my one weakness, until I left her alone and there you go--the new look of the blog. I got a makeover, rock on.

Some of it is still under construction, such as links to other blogs, but should get there pretty soon because I know that you guys that are working need something to do 7 hours a day besides working. Hey, I used to sit at my computer and read all day, do an hour or real work, then go back to reading other blogs. Don't be shocked, you do that shit too, we all know it.

When the Cult is up and running, all members will recieve white robes and we will begin to vote on politics making us an official "Voting Block" that needs to be catered to. What will we vote for? Paying stay at home dads. That's our one issue so jump on board. If you don't, then my kids will grow up to be motorcycle houligans and ride thier bikes in convience stores and not pay taxes. Do you really want the responsiblity of that? What a bad bad person you all. Ok, I gotta go now because Little Hoss is hurling cat food across the room and making the dogs chase it. Not that I mind it that much, but she's also eating it and I should really stop that. It's the first step to houligany.

My Comeback

Well, I’m back. A month and a half off and I’m back in the virtual world where I am a Viking and not a slightly overweight yet ruggedly handsome middle aged stay at home dad.

I stick by the ruggedly handsome part, even though my wife recently described me, when asked if I was handsome “Well, he grows on you.”

So basically I am a fungus that grows on you and takes care of your kids. Let’s see fucking mushrooms do that.

Thanks Hossmom for the vote of confidence.

I swear to God that I’ll go and put on the letter jacket and get so much wool that I could open a Chinese sweatshop making knock-off Gucci G-Strings. Because let’s face it, I’m the kind of guy that would get a kick out of making women’s panties.

And I grow on you.

But because I am a stay at home dad and don’t have the time for the intricate inner politics of a G-string factory, I am returning to blogging. I do realize that my month off has cost me some of my readers, probably a lot of readers as they have not been content to read old stories. Hey, that’s ok, I will lure new readers.

XXX, Teen First Time Nude Virgin Sluts Free Hardcore Porn.

And there you go, I should be sufficiently searched on all the search engines to bump my readership right up to one of the most read blogs in the universe. Good to have you all here, stick around a little, enjoy the funny fat man making funny stories with his kids.

My daughter, Little Hoss, jumped on my balls today. See, there you go. A comedy clasic, I'm full of them.

So what have I been doing this last month. Mainly sleeping. But besides that, finishing the move that my family and I have decided it was time for. In a period of 5 months, Hossmom and myself decided to have another kid (Bubba Hoss), quit my job, wife start a new job, and move to a new state. Fantastic decisions. I herby officially change my hair status from “Going Bald” to “Completely fucking hairless.”

But that’s not all I was doing. I was living life and getting material to write about so that my wife will continue to think I am funny and not divorce my ass because let’s face it, as a stay at home dad now I would be totally fucked. Not only would I not get the kids in any divorce but I doubt I would get any alimony as well. Half only applies if you have boobs.

The kids like me better though, that should count for something.

Imagine what you would do if you didn’t have a job, pretty much unlimited time and two kids to use as an excuse to do what you want to do? What would you do?

Let me tell you what I did: I am the fucking king of the plastic ball pit. Slides are more fun when you are 30. The pool kicks ass at 9:30 on a Tuesday. Naps after lunch are better than budget meetings after lunch. Hot moms love dads that actually take care of their kids and who forget their wedding rings on occasion. Civil War museums and battlefields count as continuing education. Mixing yellow play-do and red play-do do not make green play-do but does a hell of a job of staining the carpet. And singing “She’ll be coming around the mountain” 5,000 times starts to grow on you like black mold or a blogging husband. I am living the American dream. Suck it.

And what does all that get me? Qualified to be the V.P., that’s what. I’m waiting for my phone call, bucko. Fuck it, I've seen Mexico, that counts as experience.

The new blogs will start this week and continue until my dominance is unquestioned and I break the internet. Or until I get tired of it, which ever comes first.

Enjoy the new look and enjoy, I’ll do my best.

New Blogs Coming

Thanks for the month off, it's been great being able to get my house in order and take a short break. I know that I lost alot of readers but if you love them, they will come back and worship at my fat feet.

New blogs are coming next week, getting things together now. For those that have been waiting I appreciate your willingness to stick with us during these tough econimic times. Also, does Palin bother the shit out of anyone else besides me?

Once again, a goosegg.

I've got nothing. I have ideas, don't get me wrong. But for some reason I'm finding them difficult to put down on paper. Maybe I'm distracted. I'm sitting here watching that movie The Core. Man does this suck. Seriously, don't go see this.

Bubba Hoss farted on me today. Maybe his stink has gotten all over my funny. Hopefully, I will be able to get some deorderizer and get back on track this week. In the meantime, just look at some porn we all know that's your back up website anyway.

Back in my Day...............

I am concerned a bout my daughters future. I am concerned that she will have nothing but pussy rock. I am afraid that she will only have rock made by people pretending to be “glamorous” or produced by corporations to sell coke and sneakers.

They will have albums called “Nabisco’s Cereal Lineup” featuring songs like Special K is great although the Special K will not have the cool drug reference that you may think it has, it will actually mean the cereal.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want my daughter any where near any kind of drugs and have made up my mind to strip search any boy that ever comes to my house for my daughter. It won’t be gentle. It will almost be a felony that any father on any jury would forgive me for. Dad’s got to watch out for each other.

But I am a little sad that she won’t have some of that little rebellion that maybe I had. Yes, I am going to be the guy that says “Back in my day……”

Do you know why? Because back in my day Rock was hard, it was out there. It spoke for the generation. Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Sound Garden—they all rocked. They knew how to take prepubescent pent up sexual frustration and turn it on the world of our fathers. We weren’t about money or the corporate sponsorships. We were about monster guitar solos, heavy drums and groupies that might give you a little if you lied and said you were with the band. We called them Lisa and they were all good.

They were about the music for music’s sake. They were about telling the “man” that were not going to take it, no we’re not going to take it, whatever “it” may have been.

It was about not caring about how you looked. It was about taking more time to figure out how our father’s screwed up the world and how we could fix it with a torn flannel shirt that we wore in Texas. It was about combing your hair just right until it looked unkempt. It was about a generation that wanted things harder, faster and better than the one before.

It was rock that said “Hey, we know about your secret sock that you have stashed under your bed. Don’t worry about it, we all have that thing. Listen to our music because we understand.” That’s what it was. It made the jizz sock ok for teenage boys that only had the jizz sock.

You went to the concert not to buy anything. You went to mosh. You went to slam up against people that you didn’t know to get out all that pent up anger and frustration. You went to see a 110 chick throw an elbow into the gaping maw of a big fat man. It was all love.

You went to the show guaranteed that sometime, somewhere, there would be an empty stage, a guy with a guitar and a spotlight. That’s it. You knew that shit was coming and you couldn’t wait for it. And also for the chants for the chick in the 5th row, balcony, to take her shirt off and flash her tits.

Now? Now? Now what do you got?

You go to a concert and you have assigned seating. Seriously, assigned seating? You go and see dance teams performing the Cirque de Soleil while someone with a microphone strapped to the ear sings about humps. Good lord.

You see Vegas in a traveling road show. You see whole families going together. What the hell is this unity, that is not what rock is about. You get streamers and encores. Back in my day, you were lucky if they didn’t spit on you.

I have been tivoing the top twenty countdown on VHI for the last six months or so. Every time it’s the same thing. It’s the same girl, barely 18, signing about love song’s and how you don’t deserve one. Or it’s some guy who’s smooth, with his cute little throwback 1950’s fedora hat singing about how you are beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true.

Out of a 2 hour show it takes me roughly 7 minutes to watch the whole thing and that’s because my Tivo only moves at 300X. I just don’t get it, I swear to you. And I’m sad that my daughter won’t know how rock is supposed to be. She’ll think it’s all bout midriffs and glitter, not about an identity, not the voice of a generation.

I try to raise her right, I throw in some Metallica when I’m cooking. I rock some AC/DC when the time permits. I have introduced her to G and R. But now she’s starting to pass all that by. She used to love it but now she just wants Twinkle, Twinkle and songs about god damn spiders. If the spider has some ear piercings and the Little Star wore a chain wallet, maybe it would be better.

Today’s rock just plain sucks. Today’s rock’s best bets are Amy Winehouse. And everyone is shocked that she is on heroin. Shocked? Really? First off, have you seen her? I look at her and think, yup, that’s a heroin addict. It’s a no brainer. Back in my day we were shocked that they were not on heroin. We knew the only reason they went to rehab was to beat jail time. That’s rock.

But not today’s rock. Today’s rock is about all love. It’s about everyone singing the same song. Mom, Dad, both kids, all singing together like the Partridge family in a big hippie bus. That’s not supposed to happen?! It supposed to create strife. Mom is supposed to shriek when she hears rock and then run to Jesus. Little brother is supposed to fight with big sister about who rocks harder. And Dad is supposed to tell them that today’s rock sucks and back in my day when they knew how to rock……………

Uh-oh.

Sweet Jesus I think I just passed a threshold. I think, maybe, I have become my father. I think I am an old man. It’s ok everyone, no one panic. I may be mistaken. Let’s take a quiz to find out:

Do I finally know what my mom was talking about when she mentioned how awesome the Beatles were. Answer: Yes.

Do I listen to talk radio regardless of who’s in the car. Answer: Yes.

Is it mostly news talk radio. Answer: Yes

Can I tell rain’s a’comin by my trick knee? Answer: Yes

Do I often think that young people should get a hair cut and a job? Answer: yes

Do I think Hawaiian shirts and black socks with sandals are ok for a dinner party yet still useful enough to mow my lawn in. Answer: An undoubtable yes.

Ok, ok, everyone go home. Pay no attention to this rant. I am apparently my father and thus hate today’s rock. And therefore, that must mean that today’s rock is right where it needs to be.

If anyone needs me I’ll be reading my paper and writing letters to the editor.

The Parade of Babies

Bubba Hoss, my 10 month old son, was looking sweeeeeeeeeeetttttttttttt!

He had on a little Haiwian shirt that screamed “Hey chicks, it’s party time. Bring Spuds Mckensie and some Enfamil and let’s see where this night takes us.”

He also has a birth mark on top of his head, directly in the smack middle of the top, where black hair grows out of it. We call it his sprout and when contrasted to his light brown hair, looks like a racing strip. Sure, his ears are a little big, which is Hossmom’s gene pool, but when combined with his cute 4 teeth smile, he is damn handsome. I mean damn handsome. If alien’s came to our world, my son is the first person that they should meet. Bring out the hotties first, then let them get a look at the rest of us. It’s all about first impressions people!

This is how he looked as we went to the local Kidfest and entered him in the cutest baby contest. This is was done on a lark, not something that we really scouted and prepared for. We are not the parents that drive to get there kids in show business so that we can leach off them and hook up with any groupies that I don’t think he could handle, not that that wouldn’t be sweet, don’t get me wrong.

Yes, my daughter was in a commercial once but her scene ended up on the cutting room floor. It was obvious that they couldn’t see talent when it spit up right on there face. Bastards.

The kidfest was down the street from our house and we thought, since the first kid doesn’t have it to make it in the biz, we would try with number two. It was also a chance to show off how cool my son is thus making all other parents insanely jealous of my genes. And if this doesn’t work out, well, we brought knuckles with us, my daughter. She, uh, has a punching problem currently. Well, not so much as “currently” as “still” but we’ll get to that later.

There were 12 other babies in the lineup. It was officiated by 4 gorgeous young vixens who had booths to sell us stuff. If they pick my kid, then I promise I will buy one of whatever they are selling.

The pageant is also referred by a giant rat. I suppose a mouse is more of what he is, but it is a giant rat, about 6 foot tall, with huge ears. Unfortunately for me, a man in a giant fur suit is my daughter’s kryptonite. She see’s this cartoon character and then freaks out. The pageant hasn’t even started yet and Little Hoss is throwing punches already. I try to get her to calm down, but she’s not having it.

This takes dad out of any preening or politicking that I could do on my son’s behalf. Little Hoss can be a handful especially when she’s trying to land round houses. My suggestion to any around this is to duck and cover under the nearest desk. Although I was tempted to let her have one go at the rat thing, just to see what would happen.

The pageant starts while I’m the middle of trying to hang on to Little Hoss, the Texas Tornado.

There are 12 kids that are going to come in second to my little boy. The first kid has a block head. I kid you not, it’s like someone put a brick on a neck and dressed it in a little sailor suit. And it was large, like the size of a volleyball. Mom was carrying the baby around in her best halter top and I’m sure just finished a bong hit from the honey bottle in the parking lot. The competition doesn’t look to stiff.

Kid number two is going for a Dennis the Menace kind of thing except with a curly blond fro. It’s obvious that someone has given up on trying to comb that monstrosity and I can’t say I blame them. I want to tell the parents to go ahead and prepay for his spot at Devry University, that kid was born to fix copiers.

Kid three looks like a cross between foot disease and stale bread. No winner there. Although I wouldn’t have gone with the plaid on this one, it brings out his vampire pale like skin. Dear Mom, get your kid some sun or fake tan. Do something before he gets sunburned by the florescent lights.

These are how things started, little innocent children parading by while I judge why they are no where as cute as my son.

Then the twins come. Fucking twins. I’m about to call bullshit when they parade them out there together in their smarmy matching outfits. This is called the cutest baby, note the singular form of the word. Either put your kids in a chewing gum commercial or do TV work because this is a baby, one baby at a time, pageant. Oh, okay, so they can walk while holding hands to, sure, why the fuck not. Seriously, I call bullshit.

People love twin babies. I don’t know why, no variety, no diversity. They keep the black man down, that’s what I say. They get into all the best schools and it leaves my big eared kid out in the cold. Again, I call bullshit.

But all hope is not lost yet as the very last kid to be rolled out is my kid, Bubba Hoss. He’s got his smile on, he knows it big time now. That’s right son, kick those twin asses. Show them how to do the cat walk.

He’s doing pretty good to. He’s smiling, he’s laughing and I hear one of the judges say “Look at that smile!” That’s right baby, eat it up. Keep up the charm Bubba Hoss, let’s show those bitches how we do things downtown.

In. The. Bag.

I’m feeling pretty confident and it did help that when my son went out there my daughter forgot her fear of the very large sewer rat and starting yelling and cheering for her brother. Humiliating ugly babies, it would seem, is a family affair.

My son walks off the stage and the judges get together in a little group. I’m telling my son to accept it graciously when they hand him the trophy bottle and make sure to thank his Momma. Hey, I’m Dad, I know I’m the guy behind the scenes pulling the puppet strings, I don’t need public acknowledgement. I just need 10% of your future earnings and a corvette, that’s all. But no need to thank me in your speech.

The judges come up to the microphone and are ready to announce the winner. I got Bubba Hoss on my shoulders ready to give him the Rudy type send off, please hold your applause until after his speech though.

The winner is……………………….

The block head kid.

WHAT! WHAT! WHAT!

What do you mean the blockhead kid wins the cutest baby award, what kind of shit is this?? Put a yellow sweater on that kid and he’s basically Charlie Brown. Jesus H. Christ on a rubber crutch, the block head kid?

That kid could replace the green monster at Fenway. Seriously, that waterhead could be used as a land mark in travel directions. Seriously, that thing is the winner????

Recount! Recount! Recount!

They then announce why they chose this lovely child. He has the longest eyelashes. Again, I ask what the hell? Did they not see my son in his Hawaiian shirt? Did they not see the racing stripe on his head? They chose eye lashes over that? C’mon man, seriously.

In the end everyone had a good time, even Little Hoss who never did have to confront her rat monster. I have decided that none of my kids shall be in show business. It’s time to take them out back and have a look at their throwing arms, let’s see how far that gets us.
In the meantime, if your interested, they are showing the latest Indiana movie on the winners forehead at midnight.

Irony

The AC guy came yesterday. I almost fell on my knees and offered him a hand job to fix my AC. I explained that I'm not to good but that I would give it my best shot.

He fixed my AC anyway.

And how do you fix it? Why, you crank up the heat to 90 fucking degrees. That's the fix. In order to cool down we had to sweat some more for a day.

God hates me but finds me very entertaining.